


A.Z. Fell & Co. Booksellers and Matchmaking

by Seethedawn



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Believes in Love, Background Aziraphale/Crowley, F/M, Gen, Getting Back Together, Human Relationships Are Very Confusing, Newt and Anathema Broke Up, Trying to Flesh Out TV Newt a Little, can be read platonic, divine intervention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 12:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seethedawn/pseuds/Seethedawn
Summary: Crowley might not be a professional agent of Hell any more, but he certainly hasn't gone so soft that he is going to assist Aziraphale in this particular fit of whimsy.Absolutely not.So Aziraphale can bloody well stop pulling that face.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 10





	A.Z. Fell & Co. Booksellers and Matchmaking

Time passes in a curious way when one is an immortal being. 

It had, as a matter of fact, been one of the biggest challenges of his six year stint as a gardner in the Dowling household. If he hadn’t been able to forgo sleep, why, he wouldn’t have gotten any reading done at all the whole time. 

To be expected to do a lifetime’s worth of anything in a mere eighty years? Ghastly.  
So when the Antichrist has been carted off the airbase by his understandably confused father and the Angel tells Ms. Device and her young man that that they should keep in touch, Aziraphale’s genuine intention is for them to keep in touch. 

The next time he thinks of it, it is Yuletide. The winter season always reminds Aziraphale of his age in relation to his human surroundings - how fleeting humans are. They embrace the snow now, safe within their weather-proof buildings, warmed by electricity and nourished by food from all across the world. Aziraphale remembers keenly how they used to worry, the drawn panic in their faces when the cold season started early.  
He does like the carolers though. And the decorations. And hot drinks are much more enjoyable this time of year. 

He resolves to reach out to Tadfeild and renew the acquaintance. 

Rather in the same way that one means to respond to a five-day-old email, Aziraphale does not. 

The weather warms, Aziraphale and Crowley plan a jaunt to the continent. Crowley makes awful threats to the poor valet charged with moving the Bentley onto the ferry, and Aziraphale has never been a particular fan of sea-travel, but the whole ordeal is more than worth it. They have crepes in Paris, visit museums and libraries and wineries. They end up in Scandanevian wildernesses - far safer a prospect these days than in times past! - and it is only the growing ache which Aziraphale associates with time spent away from his bookshop which sends them back home. They are planning a trip out to Rome and then Constantinpole at some point in the future, recreating a terribly discomfiting journey they once took together with the Crusaders. Crowley has begun to make noises about flying out there - in an airplane. Out of London-Heathrow Airport - a demonic wile worth thwarting if ever Aziraphale saw one. 

It is Yule again - Christmas, apparently. Though Crowley informs him that even that will be outdated terminology before long.The Holiday Season. Crowley promises (threatens?) to show Aziraphale some excellent American cable news clips on YouTube - his best work apparently. Aziraphale is certain enough that Crowley invents nonsense words, especially in reference to computers. 

The seasons begin to change again - winter into spring into summer and one day they are sitting together in the bookshop in a companionable silence when Aziraphale, apropos of nothing, blurts, “I should quite like to send a card around to Tadfeild, see about arranging a visit.”

Crowley mimics, “Send a card around,” in his particular mocking tone which lets Aziraphale know that human terminology has left him behind once again. 

“I rather think things are accelerating more quickly these days,” Aziraphale tells him. 

Crowley agrees that’s true enough, and he doesn’t grouse much about joining Azriaphale on a little walk down to the corner shop. 

For all his modern expertise, Crowley can’t tell Aziraphale how many stamps it might take to get a card out to Tadfeild, so they inquire with the teller, who pulls a bit of a face but has their answer. 

“Excellent! One stamp please,” says Aziraphale, “and which flavor of jam donut do you most recommend?”

Stamps, it turns out, must be purchased in books, and Aziraphale must choose from among a host of attractive designs. At this point Crowley has abandoned the effort and has gone off, slouching in the corner reading The Sun with a fond smile. 

“Royals are feuding,” He says. 

“How nice for you,” replies Aziraphale, and he means it. 

Crowley steals the magazine so Aziraphale overpays for his apricot-filled donut, and Crowley carries the little brown paper bag while Aziraphale munches as they walk back toward the bookshop, Crowley describing the particular loopholes he placed in libel and slander laws that allow such a magazine as The Sun to exist.

Aziraphale writes out his card while Crowley selects the most appalling selections from various articles to read aloud. 

The medium is new, but the content is no surprise - Justinian and Theoroda had much the same issue. 

Aziraphale addresses the envelope only:

Ms. Anathema Device  
Tadfeild

And sets it happily in his mailbox. It is the funny thing about miracles - if Aziraphale had known such a thing as Postal Codes exist, then it wouldn’t have worked. But as he considers the envelope to be correctly addressed, the postman will too. Nevermind the fact that a postman will be spontaneously adding AZ Fell & Co. Booksellers to his route. 

{-}

On the appointed day, Crowley agrees to drive Aziraphale out to the train station, but he isn’t interested in the social call. Aziraphale has fun little interaction with a teller to aquire his ticket, not realizing that he has left the young man with the distinct impression of an escaped dementia patient, and it is frankly a miracle that he elects not to contact the authorities on Aziraphale’s behalf. 

Express trains do not typically stop at Tadfield station, but this one decides to give it a try, just the once. Aziraphale has a nice little walk then a cup of tea and a selection of pastries in the cafe in the town center. It is the type of cold drizzly day with which all Britons are accustomed - Tadfeild’s residents slightly less so, but they are adjusting quickly enough. Now that he isn’t engaged in a desperate sprint toward the end of the world, Tadfeild is scenic and peaceful and Aziraphale can almost picture himself retiring from London to a place like this. Crowley would be unlikely to go for it though. 

Aziraphale wanders down the lane towards Jasmine Cottage, not bothering much about puddles one way or the other and knocks on the front door. He is almost nervous. He knows he frequently makes an odd impression, and he does want this to go well. 

He fidgets slightly on the stoop adjusting his clothes to sit just so on his frame. 

Ms. Device is a beautiful young lady, and Aziraphale is a great fan of her particular style of dress. He kisses her on both cheeks, which he can tell immediately that she wasn’t expecting, so apparently that’s gone out of practice as well. 

She ushers him in and they sit together at the kitchen table. She has laid out a selection of pastries, sugared strawberries, and a pitcher of lemonade. 

“I got your card,” she tells him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t have any way to reply. You’ll have to give me your number.”

Always telephone numbers, thinks Aziraphale with some bitterness. He finds their ringing to be highly disruptive, but like the sound of motorcars, he supposes he will have to adjust. Even the booksellers he keeps in touch with want to email or call these days. At least they had finally given up on trying to send him faxes. But he gives it to her, along with his address, in case she wants to take the hint. Aziraphale tends to hint with a sledgehammer - especially where his human acquaintances are involved. 

Aziraphale compliments her spread, and they discuss the town. Anathema is smitten with the place, she owns Jasmine Cottage now, and they discuss some modernizing renovations she has made and more that she is planning. Despite the wall mounted television and speakers, Aziraphale acknowledges that she has kept the feel of the old building. 

“I wanted to enlarge the old fireplace - it’s not large enough for a stove so the sitting room stays very cold in the winter, but, with these old protected buildings, there are limits to what you can get permission to do,” she laments. 

Aziraphale casts his eye over the fireplace in question. It would hardly be an architectural travesty… 

“Holy shit!” Anathema blurts, then, “Oh, I’m sorry! That was rude - was that rude? I am sorry. Did you... do that?”

The fireplace has expanded by about two feet in width and grown a foot-ish taller and deeper. Aziraphale studied architecture in Athens, but he never bothered much with British bricklaying techniques, so he doesn’t consider such things as load-bearing walls, and so the wall itself no longer considers itself thus. It will bear the load anyhow. 

Anathema is watching him, a new consideration in her eyes. Aziraphale braces for more pointed descriptions of longed-for illegal renovations, but she only thanks him and leads him back into the parlor. 

It seems awkward now - Aziraphale does not have much experience in revealing himself to humans in a non-religious capacity. Be not afraid, he thinks, would be a little much. It never really works anyway. 

“So you really are - I mean Adam told me but…” She trails off. Watches him out of the corner of her eye as she refills her kettle. 

“Yes, well,” says Aziraphale agreeably. 

He supposes, absently, that for a human to discover themselves to be in the presence of an angel would be rather alike to Crowley announcing himself to be an Archangel. If one were afraid - what would be the point of running from such a power imbalance? Nothing for it but to pour more tea, he thinks, watching Anathema pour more tea. 

She sits. Stares at him quite impolitely. 

“You said at the airport, something about Apple-Tree duty?”

Aziraphale fidgets. Guardian of the Eastern Gate indeed. 

“Did you mean… Eden? Real Eden, Adam and Eve, Fall of Mankind, Eden?

“Oh a lovely couple, truly. You would have liked her, I think.”

“I would have liked… Eve?”

“Yes, incredibly intelligent young woman, Eve. I did not know them long, but it was a very pleasing acquaintance.” 

“So you’ve been around forever, then? Since the beginning?”

Aziraphale nods, but doesn’t answer, chewing on a bite of flaky pastry. 

“Can I ask you about that? Like do you mind? I won’t put it online or anything, I swear. None of Agnes’ prophecies got posted or anything.” She says it all in a rush, Aziraphale recognizes the flush of excitement in her face - that very human thirst for knowledge that he shares with them, so he gestures for her to proceed. 

They chat for hours. The lemonade pitcher never goes empty but Anathema uses her phone to have a lovely selection of curries brought to the house. Oober, she calls it - Aziraphale makes a note to investigate further with Crowley. 

Anathema is very interested in what she clearly considers to be ‘her’ history - Eve, the Magdalene, the Cults of Demeter and Dionysus, healer-women, midwives, and the tide of witchburnings.

She is very well read, but Aziraphale promises to bring more books she might like along next time. Much as one often forgets the particular age of an Aunt, Aziraphale is more often than not unable to recall dates. Joan of Arc “seemed very young” but Anathema tells Aziraphale that she was twelve. Aziraphale elects not to describe the pickled onions street vendors were selling in the streets the day she burned. 

“You really ought to speak with Crowley, you know,” he tells her when he is regretfully unable to answer her questions about the practices of witches covens in the early days of the Catholic Church. He doesn’t want to admit it to her, but Aziraphale was quite on the wrong side of history there - the Church was situating itself as the stronghold of knowledge, and the libraries Aziraphale had missed so dearly were very much only open to male-shaped entities. 

Aziraphale happens to know, however, that the only Hellish commendation for which Crowley is truly proud, is the one he got for his decades among the covens, resisting the encroaching rise of the local parish priest. He went missing for almost eighty years after that assignment - Aziraphale suspects that he allowed himself to be burned at the stake in solidarity. 

Anathema’s hesitation returns. 

“Crowley, he is okay, right? We don’t have to worry - he is safe?”

Bemused, Aziraphale replies, “of course,” wondering what kind of danger she could possibly imagine Crowley to be in. 

Unless, Agnes Nutter...? 

But Anathema seems relieved, and Aziraphale is momentarily moved, if still slightly nonplussed, by her concern when she goes on, “Okay, because y’know, he is a demon. I had to check.”

In a far chillier tone than usual, Aziraphale informs her, “Crowley is no more danger to anyone than I am.” 

Though he did give a rapist stomach cancer last week. Aziraphale just wanted the man moved to confession. But that is plainly a different type of thing. 

There is an awkwardness in the air. It hangs for a moment, and for all his centuries Aziraphale has nothing to draw upon to dispel it. 

Anathema says, “so how did you guys meet?” 

At the same time, Aziraphale says, “So what about your young witchfinder?” 

“Oh, Newt?” Says Anathema, for the first time appearing truly discomfited, “we, well, I, um, it didn’t work out.” She gives a little shrug and begins fussing with the dinner dishes. 

Aziraphale takes a moment to really perceive Anathema - he feels the sting of her rejection, of a love that was seeded, but never nurtured to blossom. Deeper still, and she is stranded, adrift almost. She is alone, has been her whole life, but she feels it more now, her life’s purpose complete. 

Anathema clears her throat, bringing Aziraphale back into the present moment. 

“You know, witches think it’s really rude to read auras without permission.”

What Aziraphale can do is far deeper than an aural reading, but he does not elaborate. 

“My apologies, dear.” 

She waves him off, not really unhappy with him. 

“Would you… like to tell me about it?” he ventures, cautiously after his faux pas. And it turns out that she does. 

Aziraphale has found himself comforting romantically-challenged women more frequently than anyone would expect. They read him as harmless, correctly enough, and they often find a good audience - Aziraphale is always ready to appreciate a well told story. 

At some point Anathema has put away the lemonade and brought out a startlingly weak California Rosé. Feigning a pleased smile, Aziraphale upgrades his portion almost immediately. 

“I think I just came on too strong, y’know?” She is saying, waving her glass with expansive gesturing, “Like that my whole life I have trusted Agnes and followed Agnes and I thought I was ready to move past that and be more than just a descendent, but then she was gone and the only thing I had left was that package addressed to Misses Pulsifer, and so, I was ready, you know? I was all in. But Newt had to go back to London to get a job and I didn’t have anything to get back to, so it felt like… like my life was just about him, like that I was just waiting all the time. Waiting for the apocalypse, waiting for this witchfinder, then waiting for him again, to fit me into his life…” The idea of it angers her, the waiting, the sting of that residual bitterness still sharp enough for all that she clearly misses the man. 

“He supports his Mom, you know? He is so sweet and he works these terrible jobs that make him miserable, so I said he didn’t have to anymore, that I could just buy his Mom’s house or something and he wouldn’t have to keep finding these crappy jobs, but he completely freaked. So we were fighting a ton and then we called it off. Agnes was wrong. And I’ll never know if she intended any of it. It was almost a year ago now,” she says as if that were a very long time and the matter is quite closed. As though Aziraphale cannot feel the weight of her hurt and her regret, still fresh as though the whole ordeal had been on Wednesday last. 

She gives him a watery smile, “Sorry. You’re literally an Angel and here I am going on about my ex-boyfriend.” 

“Now now, none of that,” Aziraphale tells her, materializing a handkerchief to hand across the table, “these things take time. Some people are touched by destiny, and you, my dear, are certainly one of those people. You deserve happiness wherever you may find it, and I am certain that you will find it.”

Almost all women have heard such platitudes upon revealing a broken heart - empty words intended to encourage the cessation of tears. Anathema thinks it sweet, and she cheers up considerably.

Anathema has no way of knowing that Aziraphale is quite correct - destiny touches certain humans, and Anathema is currently sharing a couch with it’s Heavenly agent on Earth. Said agent recently having acquired quite a vast amount of spare time...

In Mayfair, Aziraphale’s divine certainty has Crowley grinding his teeth, though he won’t find out why until he visits the bookshop next morning.


End file.
